The
second time I heard the noises, it was already dark on an
unseasonably warm February night. They were coming from right
outside the dining room window where the massive pine tree leans
against the side of the house. It was a combination of scratching,
pawing, small thumps and possibly chewing and try as I might to write
it off as my imagination, when the old tabby jumped up on the window
sill and peered out into the blackness, I knew it was real.
Something was trying to get in - or maybe out - of my house. I
managed to locate a flashlight and reluctantly headed out into the
yard, approached the tree from both sides, and saw absolutely nothing
except the giant tree trunk and random clumps of pine straw and small
branches. Summoning courage I wasn’t sure I even had, I moved
closer and gave one of the limbs a good shake - it was immediately
answered by the sounds of scurrying and I was so startled that I
nearly lost my balance. But for the sudden and very unwelcome vision
from “The House of Usher” where Vincent Price muses about hearing
“rat claws within the stone walls”, I would have fallen and
likely have been buried for all time beneath the mountain of dead
leaves that were piled around the base of the tree. Instead, I
clutched the flashlight like a loaded gun and frantically backed
away, not caring whether the scurrying had been out of sight on the
roof or actually inside the walls. I fled like a rabbit for the
safety and light of the front yard, up the steps and through the door
as if the devil himself were at my heels.
Most
likely a squirrel, I decided, annoying and probably destructive but
no great menace. Unless of course it was a rat. The scurrying had
been too quick for a raccoon or possum and a cat would’ve been
vocal. Unless of course it had been a rat. A squirrel truly seemed
the most common and probable intruder. Unless of course it was a
rat. I thought back a few years and remembered the rat crisis at my
friend, Michael’s, how I had regretted the poison we’d used,
sworn I’d never use it again. Even so, a call to the exterminator
seemed the best first step. Before I could devise a plan of attack,
an examination of the attic was clearly in order and I knew just the
man for the job. It’s not that I’m afraid of squirrels or
raccoons or possums or even rats - but I am afraid of the unknown and
the idea of crawling into a dark attic with God knows what kind of
unseen creature hiding in the shadows, red eyed and rat clawed and
ready to pounce…...well, not my cup of tea.
Dexter
the Exterminator arrives the following afternoon, reassuring in his
green jumpsuit with
his name emblazoned on the back and over the
front pocket.
He
brings a ladder and a flashlight, dons a pair of heavy gloves, and
fearlessly climbs to push back the attic ceiling panel while I wait
anxiously below.
“Rats,”
he tells me a moment or two later, “Tell by the droppings.”
“How
bad?” I ask with a shudder.
Being
a man of few words, he shrugs and says “Seen worse. Put out some
poison and inside of a week, no more rats.” He sees my expression
and I suspect he’s remembering the siege at Michael’s. “Ain’t
no humane way to kill’em less’n you trap and release,” he says
pointedly, “And there ain’t no practical way of doin’ that, is
there?”
I
admit there’s not. I hate it but don’t have a better plan. He
pulls off his gloves and picks up the ladder and flashlight then
takes pity on me.
“There’s
times in this job when I don’t much like what has to be done,” he
tells me kindly, “I know you ain’t the kind to countenance
sufferin’ even if it’s just a rat. But sometimes you just gotta
do what’s got to be done.”
Sometimes
that’s exactly what you gotta do.